


The Russian Siege

by Anonymous



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28749687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28
Collections: Anonymous





	The Russian Siege

"You're a spectacular fuckup, Greg," Tom said. "it's almost like a superpower. Failman. Mistake-o the Magician."

"Like, I just followed the directions?"

"Greg. I told you to find us a very simple short cut through the team-building exercise-"

"Yeah, you asked me to cheat so we didn't have to do the hike to the cabin."

"A SHORT CUT," Tom clarified. "ever heard of Kobayashi Maru?"

"Yeah," Greg said and Tom's face felt hot. He'd hoped he hadn't. Now he looked like a nerd.

"Well then you know what I'm fucking talking about. Winners think outside the box."

"Yeah and you didn't want to do the hike. So I arranged the snowmobile, and I followed the directions, and we got to the cabin before everybody else, but I don't know, there's just, the cabin isn't like, what I expected. Like, how is there supposed to be room for thirty people in here? There's barely room for just us."

Tom frowned, looking around in the small space. There wasn't even electricity - fire was crackling in the fireplace, affording the cold space a little heat and light. The only other heat source was his dope of an assistant pressed up against him in the single bedspace of the room. He'd had half a mind to make Greg curl up on the flat rug on the floor but even this indignity was preferable.

"We should have turned back before it started snowing," Tom sighed. "we won't be able to trace our tracks. God, what if we die in here. Dibs on eating you."

"What?"

"You know. For calories." Tom turned over, looked at him appraisingly. "Christ, there can't be more than maybe five hundred of them on you at most, you celery stick. It should only buy me another two minutes of life." He sighed again. "I'll spend them cursing your memory."

"We're not going to die. They'll come looking for us, soon as the snow lets up."

"God I'm fucking freezing."

Greg turned a little, wrapping an arm around him. There was a silence.

"Greg."

"Yeah?"

"What are you doing."

"Like, warming you up."

"Oh, thanks. Having your drinking straw arm over my body is really helping. I feel like Leonardo diCaprio in that movie where he hollowed out a bear and slept in its steaming guts. I feel like I'm back in the womb- Jesus, what are you doing now?"

"Like, just, rubbing, your arm? For warmth?"

"Well it's not helping."

Greg sighed. "Sorry."

Another silence.

"You could lie on top of me. Like, I'm going to need more than your scrawny arm or being accosted by your weird wok hand, I'm a real human sized man. Here."

Greg shifted and planted an elbow on the other side of him, gently positioned himself over Tom and then lowered his body down, chest to chest, belly to belly, crotch to crotch. Tom swallowed, put both arms around him.

"Oh, this is awkward."

Greg tilted his head a little, his eyes black in the low light. "Is it better?"

"Maybe," Tom said, swallowing. "kind of."

"Maybe if we like, introduced some movement to this?"

"Huh?"

"I think it might be uh, efficacious, with some, friction." Bracing on his elbows, he slowly dragged his body upwards. Tom gasped, and his knees came up, trapping Greg inbetween them.

"It- ah- you know, Greg, you might be onto something." He moved back, ignored the sensation of Greg's dick through his flannel pajama bottoms. Ignored his own responding to that sensation. Except then his body betrayed him and he took a sharp intake of breath, pressed the back of his head into the flat pillow beneath. Over him, Greg bit his lip, then dipped his head down and kissed Tom's mouth all soft. 

"Oh, really," Tom said.

"Uh-"

"You total nancy. What, cousin Greg? You can't just, help a friend out, you have to go and make it weird."

"I-"

Tom grabbed the back of Greg's head and pulled him back down, kissed him crooked and hard. Greg made a soft noise in the back of his throat and pulled away just enough to soften the kiss, slipped his tongue into Tom's mouth. Tom pushed a hand inbetween them, unbuttoned the buttons on his top and then made short work of Greg's, it gave him something to focus on so he wouldn't just get lost in that warm, sultry kiss. It shouldn't feel half as good as that to kiss Cousin Greg. The man was - a sloth that fell into a magic pond somewhere in Patagonia and emerged as a human, not - Top Gun. Or, uh, or Shiv.

Greg hovered just enough to pull off his top, Tom just opened his to bare his chest and pulled him back down. Skin to skin contact, that's how Napoleon's men survived during the Russian siege, according to Connor. Well, before they all died. 

Before Tom could further pursue that line of thought Greg spoke.

"Maybe- maybe you could turn around?"

Tom made a noise and a face, a noise and a face which he hoped signalled just how much of a presumptuous piece of shit Greg was, and then he quietly shifted over to his side and then his stomach, Greg raising himself up on an arm over him to give him room. Then Greg's hands pulled at his pajama top and he squirmed to let him take it off, and then he was pulling his pajama bottoms and boxers down in one movement. The fabric of the sheets were burlap rough against his hard dick but Greg's ridiculous hands were gentle, gentle.

"Wait, not the socks."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes GREG it's important to keep one's extremities covered in a low temperature situation, socks stay on. Yours too."

"Okay, okay." Greg moved away from him, exposing his almost naked body to the chill air of the cabin. 

"Yeah we're going to have to get through this nightoOOH JESUS CHRIST"

"Mmmh" Greg sighed, running his tongue from Tom's asshole to the small of his back and up his spine. His mouth stopped at Tom's neck, in a hard, open mouthed kiss.

"No marks, no marks," Tom gasped.

"No promises," Greg said.

"What? What? Fuck you, Greg, who do you think you are? The Fonz?"

"Sorry," Greg said, sounded a little winded and befuddled behind him. Then a large hand made its way around Tom's throat and he made a very soft whimper, and then the hand slid up to cup in front of his mouth. "spit?"

"That's uh. Better," Tom said, even if he wasn't sure how. He circled his tongue in his mouth and spat into Greg's hand.

Greg drew his hand back and Tom could hear him quietly spit behind him, and he swallowed, shoved his head into the flat, hard pillow. Not even thinking about it, he parted his legs wider, breathed in deep when Greg's slick fingers stroked his asshole, made him wet, and he gasped when the first finger broached him. Well, this was not how the company retreat was supposed to go. Fingerbanged by cousin Greg in the coldest cabin in Canada. He moved up against Greg, grinding on his hand until he slipped in another digit. And then another. He realized he could come just from this, from Greg's long fingers moving inside him and the friction of those shitty sheets against his dick underneath him.

"Put it in me," Tom whispered. "that's- uh- a direct order from your superior."

"Um. Yes, sir. Do you think you could spit again, for me?"

"God, isn't that enough?"

"Uh, just, like, for my dick, as it were."

"Jesus Christ, Greg." Tom got up, turned to where Greg was sitting up against the wall. He was barechested but he still had his pajama bottoms on, and they were tented high. Tom reached out, pulled on the hem enough for his dick to spring free. Then he ducked his head, grabbed it with one hand and licked it in thick swipes, spitting and dribbling along the way. In the intense silence of the cabin Greg's stuttery breaths and the wet noises Tom was making around his dick were very loud and he suddenly felt like hearing Greg moan. 

"I- fuck, Tom, I think that's enough-"

Tom took the head of Greg's dick in his mouth, let his tongue dance over it.

"Aaah," Greg said, almost startled.

"Now," Tom said. "now it's enough."

He got back down on his stomach, braced himself, held his breath when Greg lined up against him and then sobbed when he slowly started pushing in.

"You okay, Tom?"

"Shut the whole fuck up, Greg," Tom said, but his voice was thin and high. 

"Okay," Greg said, a little unsurely, but didn't stop moving, slow and burning inch by inch. 

Just when Tom was about to ask just how many miles of dick he had coiled up back there Greg finally bottomed out, hovered over him with warm, heavy breath on his neck, swallowing audibly. The first few thrusts hurt like fuck but then it just. Kind of didn't. In fact, Greg was kind of hitting a tender, throbbing spot inside him which made his dick stand to attention and heat radiate through his body. He started thrusting back, moaning open mouthed as they fell into a rhythm. 

"Is- is that good, Tom?"

"Jesus- ohhh, fuck-- fucking-- obviously--"

"Can you, fuck, can you, like, tell me?"

Tom shut his eyes hard. "Why-- are you-- wearing-- aHH-- wire, you fucking-- uhh oh god, Greg. Greg. Greg-"

"Tom"

"So good-- Greg-- fuck me, fuck me--"

"Uhh"

Then Greg's hands were surprisingly hard at his hips, pulling him to his knees, and Greg rose up behind him, held him down and fucked him hard, hips snapping. Tom whimpered, unable to do much more than take it, hands digging hard into the rough sheets. Then another thrust and he flooded with warmth as Greg came inside him in hard spurts. Greg was gasping and choking over him, softening, riding it out in little movements, before he pulled out. Tom could feel cum trickle down his thigh. Then Greg was pulling him up, until they were chest to back, and one long arm was wrapped around his chest, holding him close, and the other reached down for his dick, and Greg started stroking him surely while he mouthed and licked at his neck. When he came he saw stars.

"Listen, you'll never tell anyone of this," Tom told the caretaker who had somehow managed to shovel his way into the cabin without waking them the following morning, while he was pulling his clothes on. "if you know what's best for you."

The guy, big, bearded, round-faced, just shrugged. "You do what you have to do in the cold. Skin heat is best. It's how Napoleon's soldiers survived during the Russian siege. Well, for a while."

"Right," Tom agreed, slightly taken aback. "right."

"How did you find us?" Greg asked.

"The retreat is half a kilometer up," the caretaker said. "we saw the smoke coming out of this cabin but the snow was too heavy to come get you."

"Half a what?"

"Around 550 yards," Greg explained. 

"What?"

"Besides your guys said you liked roughing it and to leave you to it."

Tom felt heat rise to his face. Those fucking traitors. Those quislings. This was their idea of team-building? As soon as he was a little more established he'd have them all shot in the yard. Metaphorically speaking. Then he met Greg's dark eyes, and he just sighed. "Yeah, I like it."


End file.
